In that time some ancients
called the death mist,
others the black sun,
he knows it as
the ‘tween times,
before new day has begun.
Ideas spring unbidden,
prompted by moonlight.
Great rhymes are found,
written down, or lost.
It’s the night shift,
poems bathed in shadow,
starlight used to burn
the words in stanzas,
each spinning on its axis,
a muse-ical nocturne.
It is possible
to face annoyances
with other than
pique, fury, rage.
It is possible
for every living soul
to have innate Buddhist wisdom,
being and acting as harmless
as they know how to be.
It is possible
to smother anger and hate,
to cover them with
charity, tenderness, benevolence.
It is possible
to practice radical humility,
to notice what is convenient for us
is inconvenient for others.
It is possible
to slow down,
walk more slowly on the earth,
be healing and strong,
rejoicing in the day.
Pause
It’s a useful tool,
the simple act of pausing,
calms what happens next.
When I’m too revved up,
it helps to take deep, slow breaths,
knowing all is well.
I meditate, breathe,
feeling the divinity,
in touch with my joy.
There’s one perfect life.
I know that life is Gods’s life.
That life’s my life now.
